


Sunday Morning

by chaineddove



Category: Gravitation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tohma and Eiri share a quiet morning and an old memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: “piano.” Set after the (as-yet-unwritten, oops) conclusion of _Shooting Stars_ , so be aware! This fic grew completely out of the Maroon 5 song of the same title, which just happened to be on the radio at the time.

Tohma doesn’t compose much these days. The greater part of his work is managerial; he’s bought out three smaller record companies and is working on acquiring a fourth. He is in the office most of the day, charming sponsors and terrifying producers who are not working as hard as he believes they should be. His face is still smooth and ageless and if he hadn’t spent the majority of his youth in the spotlight, no one would be likely to guess his age (as it is, the industry is still reeling from the lavish party held for his fortieth birthday – at least partially because he indulged the gathering and gave a brief performance, still looking like the twenty-something rock star he hasn’t been in years). He is still hard on those who work for him and endlessly generous with those he loves. His son is sweetly manipulative and outrageously spoiled, and he likely spends more time at the baby grand piano in the parlor than Tohma does, these days.

Still, he has occasional breaks in his schedule. Every once in awhile, on a lazy weekend morning, with a beam of sunlight slanting across the floor, he will sit and play for an hour or two, modulating from one key to another, changing moods with a roll of his fingers across the ivory keys, filling the penthouse with the comforting sounds of his music and all the memories it invokes.

Some of his memories will always be fuzzy, but Eiri remembers this, more as a feeling than an image: the warmth of the sunlight, the flow of the music, the comfort of home. Things have changed over the years, but this has come back to him, at least, and he treads softly in the kitchen, listening. He is not here every morning or even every other morning, but it has become more frequent over the last year or so, and when Tohma is at the piano Eiri finds himself lingering before he returns to his empty apartment, which is looking less lived-in every day. He prefers the scent of coffee and the cadences of the piano to the impersonal silence which reigns in his own space.

No one knows the way he does that the music in Tohma’s mind is still alive and well. Although no one has forgotten the legendary Tohma of Nittle Grasper, common belief is that in the way of young geniuses, he has burned out. Everyone assumes that he has moved into the administrative milieu because he is no longer able to produce best selling records, but Eiri knows the truth on days like this, when the notes float from the doorway, gentle and teasing, playful and somber, soft and brilliant. As an artist of a sort himself, Eiri understands that it isn’t that the music is gone; it is more that Tohma no longer feels the need to prove himself by sharing it, and keeps it guardedly close to his heart.

The kitchen floor is cool against Eiri’s bare feet and his coffee cup is hot in his hands. In the quiet of a winter morning, the notes of the piano dance and swirl around the quietly efficient hum of the heat pumping from the vents. The music is cheerful and energized, and Eiri can guess the musician’s mood from that alone. They have spent the last few years slowly re-learning how to be in tune with each other, and although it is not always easy, it is generally satisfying, or at the very least anything but boring. Today’s Tohma is happy and well rested, perhaps even a little playful. As he enters the parlor, Eiri can see he has guessed correctly; there is a small smile on Tohma’s lips as his fingers flutter over the keys. There is sunlight on the carpet and the scene is so nostalgic that he only hesitates a few moments before he walks over and settles on the edge of the piano bench, not quite touching. There is a shift in the melody, and little by little the suddenly dreamlike chord sequence resolves itself into silence. Tohma turns to look at him, still smiling, and Eiri still isn’t used to this, completely, but for the moment it isn’t too awkward, so he smiles faintly back and wordlessly offers his steaming coffee cup.

Tohma takes it from him, wrapping his fingers around it and taking an appreciative sniff of the rich, bitter aroma. It reminds Eiri of the way certain things have changed. They take their coffee the same way now – black and pungent, undiluted with cream or sugar. Tohma has to look up at him. The piano bench is not quite wide enough anymore. There are years between their past and where they are now, and they haven’t completely worked through all of the ambiguities that have formed between them over that time. Sometimes, Eiri still stops to wonder what, exactly, they are doing – there is a child involved, and Eiri’s sister, and the occasional tenacious reporter who is determined to intrude on their complicated family existence. Things are far from being ideal or even settled, but when Tohma sips gratefully at the coffee and passes the cup back, Eiri turns it and drinks from the same side of the rim. For this one lazy, sunny morning, he knows inherently that this is the place he most wants to be.


End file.
